


Sutures & Prosthetics

by Dmfritsch



Category: John Wick (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hospitalization, How Do I Tag, Lost Love, New York City, Prosthesis, Relationship Problems, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dmfritsch/pseuds/Dmfritsch
Summary: Intertwined by their complicated pasts, Samantha and John meet again in the future after he kills Viggo. Viggo's family seeks revenge on the former hitman forcing them to go into hiding. Neither one is expecting the other to have changed in the ways they have, reigniting feelings from the past.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**"As soon as there is life, th** **ere is danger."**

**\- Ralph Waldo Emerson**

 

* * *

**The Prologue**

* * *

When a funeral procession rolls by you rarely think about the family that passes by you. Sure, you think about them, but you don't think too much about the situation they're in. You will more than likely think about how it was the last time you went to a funeral, you take a moment to pause and think through the details of the person who passed and the way the day went, but you rarely think about the suffering. Which is exactly what happened the day Thatcher Warren died. His funeral procession rolled through in a line of thirty to forty cars, each one filled with beloved friends and family. It was hard to decipher who was who to him. If you would have asked him he would have told you that some of his family were more friends, and that most of his family was made up of people he met in the military, serving his time in the Black Ops overseas. It didn't matter how much time passed between the times they spoke or what corners of the country they lived on. They were family. The people who watched the procession paid their respects by stopping and allowing them to pass, knowing nothing of the crying wife in the front seat of the car behind the hearse.

The attendees knew everything about the suffering. They watched with heavy hearts as she cried her way through her speech, having to stop countless times to choke back a sob as she thanked everyone for coming. Her mother had to hold her up at the podium while she spoke, muttering a prayer under her breath every few minutes. Samantha Warren swore it should have been her in his place inside the cherry wood casket that contained what was left of his remains. He had more people that cared for him, which was evident in the crowd that sat before her. He served most of his life in the military only to come home and die in a car accident. It was a cruel and twisted situation. All of those missions he was on, the most he had was a scratch or a headache from the heat. He died in a car. On a bridge. All because some trucker fell asleep at the wheel and hit them head on.

The last few days were filled with nothing but hatred and alcohol filled rages. The people who pulled them out of the car should have gotten Thatcher out first. They shouldn't have worried themselves with her. Her left arm was missing, severed, laying a few feet behind their car, her head cut and bleeding, left leg broken to hell. With her job, she knew her outlook wasn't good as she watched the hot, thick, red blood squirt out of her arm. Her vision was hazy and a dark halo outlined everything she looked at. The people who dragged her from the car spoke, but she couldn't hear them. She screamed for Thatcher feet away from the car, his head slumped over the steering wheel, eyes shut. She screamed his name like a broken record, deep and throaty, yelling for him to wake up. The trunk of the car caught fire and she scrambled to get to him, to pull him to safety. Someone cradled her against their chest as she beat him with her only hand, clawing at his skin to get to her husband. The front of the car went up in flames and the noises in her throat stopped. She was physically unable to produce the sounds she needed to, hot tears streaming down her face as the firefighters arrived and ran towards the car they were dragging her away from.

None of the attendees knew the details. They didn't know the events that took place. They knew the car had caught fire, but most did not know that Samantha had watched her husband burn. They knew her arm was gone now, but they didn't know why. Samantha braced herself against the podium with her right hand, her head down, promising herself that she would sleep later. That she would take as many pain pills as she could to stop from feeling anything, not just the pain. Suicide was too scary for her to try. She knew no amount of courage would enable her to take her life. She prayed for the strength to do it, but it never came, leaving her with the nagging question of why. Why it was so important for her to stay without him and why she wasn't taken too.

This is what no one watching the procession could see from the outside. The broken one left behind.

 

* * *

**Author's Note: So, I have writer's block and I have been seriously wanting to write this. I know it's not a popular movie, but it's been rolling around in my head and I feel like I just needed to get it down to get it out of my HEAD. More to come later this week. This prologue sets the scene for the story. It's not going to be entirely grimy and sad like this, but it helps character development and changes, etc. Will be rated M for language and content.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This story will kind of bounce between "present", October 2014 and the past to help show relationships, etc. It will not happen every chapter, but it will be this way for the first few chapters to help show relationship between the two.**

**I have no beta, but I will go back and re-read things here and there from time to time. :)**

 

* * *

 

**October 2014**

 

* * *

 

Bellevue Hospital's Emergency Room/Trauma Center was running at its normal pace for a fall Saturday night. Patients with wounds of all kinds, between car accidents, party related accidents, chest pains, vomiting, the worst headaches people have ever experienced, and gunshot wounds. It was raining outside, the weather compounding the feelings of dread in Samantha Warren's chest as she spoke with a family outside of an ICU room. She had the feeling since she had woken up earlier that afternoon, her instincts doing all they could to keep her at home. Her guilt won in the decision for her to go to work anyway. The feelings of dread were becoming a normal feeling and she hated herself for it. She held her head down, but kept her eyes on the parents of her patient, trying to stay neutral and calm while they cried.

"But he's stable for now?" the father of her patient asked, peeking in through the blinds to look at his son. He had been in a serious car accident earlier in the day, his body wrecked with multiple broken bones and a collapsed lung. Michael Foster, the head doctor on her small trauma team, had worked endlessly to keep the man alive. Samantha nodded, swallowing hard as her stomach gurgled. It was almost two in the morning and she still hadn't eaten since the night before. A huge mistake on her part - she had chosen to sleep until the last minute before she had to leave for work. Being a nurse for 13 years, she knew better than to make such a rookie move, but it had been the best sleep she had managed in a few months and it was too hard to resist. The parents of her patient hugged tightly and Samantha smiled before quickly excusing herself, desperate to find some food.

In the break room she fumbled through the refrigerator, hoping that by just being near food that it would help quell the hunger threatening to swallow her whole. Her fingers struggled to take the lid off of her container before eventually opening it with a short pop sound. A short smile spread across her lips at the sight of the fruit before her. She reached in to grab a strawberry and the pager hooked to her scrub pants began to vibrate. Her hand slowly curled into a fist and reached down to retrieve the pager, exhaling upon reading the text. GS wound. Another gunshot? Twelve in two hours? It was unbelievable. She sighed, staring down at the fruit, her eyes bouncing over the pager as the words flashed on the small green again. "Fuck," she muttered, frowning at her food. Her stomach rumbled again. GS wound. "Later," she whispered. "I'll eat it later." Resisting the urge to engorge herself on fruit, she tossed the container back into its proper place and stalked towards the ambulance bay, trying to stop the rumbling in her stomach.

Michael was waiting for her with a pair of gloves and a gown. He was the head doctor and surgeon on their small team of five. Two doctors and three nurses, Samantha included. She had spent endless nights in the emergency room to prove her worth for a trauma team. It was no easy feat to impress Michael Foster. When the position for a registered nurse came available, Samantha was the first one to approach him about it. It had been her dream since she was child. Her mom was a nurse for forty years before she retired, on the nights that she couldn't afford or find a babysitter, Samantha came with her to work from the time she was 2. Even after she was old enough to take care of herself at home, she went with her mom anyway. She helped dress the older patients for bed in the evenings before starting on her homework, then she would nap a few hours, and be up to help with breakfast before school. Nursing was something she had been born with and raised by. So, when Michael first questioned why she should be considered and she gave him her answer, he could hardly say no.

"Can you believe this?" he asked her, tying up the gown for her while she pulled on the surgical gloves. "Another one. Another gunshot in two hours!"

"It's only been forty five minutes," Samantha answered, peering up at the clock situated above the sliding doors for the ambulance.

"I'm going to sleep after this," he groaned. "Thirty six hours without sleep I start to turn into a shadow and I start to forget about things."

"Like eating?" she asked as the doors opened, the lights from the ambulance falling into view.

" _Especially_ eating," Michael replied. The ambulance stopped and Michael opened the door. The EMT situated at the head of the gurney began rattling off his assessment, not missing a beat.

"Victim is a white male, late 30's, early 40's, no ID's, no wallet. B/P 80/30, heart rate tachy in the 140's, respirations stable, one gunshot to the abdomen, no exit wound, a few lacerations close to the gunshot, moderate drainage from all wounds. One IV started in field in the left arm. Victim found down near stockyard, has been unconscious since we arrived on scene. Multiple weapons found, given to police before transport. 2 liters of LR in, bag three running wide open."

"Get him prepped for the OR," Michael ordered, pressing his stethoscope to the victim's side the minute the gurney hit the concrete. "Ex lap." Samantha ran to the head of the gurney to take over the ambu bag when she saw the man's face. In a second she was no longer standing in the ambulance bay of Bellevue. She was in college, working at the bar she had refused to visit in years, her stomach flipping over itself as she watched the man before her fight a few guys in the alley outside of her work. Her mouth dropped open, all color falling from her face, the hunger in her stomach now silent. She swallowed. _John Wick_. She would know his face anywhere in any form. His hair was longer now, his classic dark gaze now lax and peaceful. Samantha fumbled for a moment before her conscious took over. _Ambu bag, genius_. Her hand quickly went into action, compressing the small blue bag that was pumping oxygen into his lungs.

"Linda, please prep OR 5 for our John Doe," Samantha ordered, doing a closer examination of his scalp for missing injuries with her free hand. The gurney moved at its usual quickened pace, but this was too fast for Samantha at the current moment. There was too much to take in. "No injuries noted upon assessment of his head, Michael. Just some small lacerations to his face, they're pretty shallow." Michael nodded his head from the bottom of the gurney, his gaze popping up to meet hers as they turned the corner, headed for the pre-op area of the trauma unit.

"You coming?" he asked, pausing on the side of the hallway to pull his scrub cap on. Samantha shook her head unconsciously, her mind slipping from the hospital again.

 

* * *

 

**March 1999**

 

* * *

 

"I'll take a neat scotch," his deep voice called out, barely audible between the music and chatter surrounding the both of them. When Samantha first met John Wick she was working in a classy, upscale jazz bar: The Columns, in the northern part of Harlem. The small bar was made up of a short L-shaped bar with a black, wooden counter, no more than 15 feet in length and a tiny black, wooden stage to match. It had been built years ago, sometime in the 1960's according to owner. He had tried to update as little as possible so it wouldn't take away from the established ambiance. It was dark, decorated in dark blues, blacks, and grays with low ceilings and a large, crystal chandelier hanging over the stage in the back of the bar, opposite of the entrance. The man who ordered the drink was sitting alone, no women draped over his shoulders, no friends talking his ear off. It was the first thing to catch her attention about him. It was odd. He had an attractive face and was dressed nicely. Most attractive men in the bar dressed that way would have women dangled about them, drinks in each hand, a huge, undeniable smirk on their face, the reaffirming smirk that let everyone know their judgments about them were true.

She hadn't expected anyone of interest to walk into the bar that night. Most of her customers consisted of college kids, like herself, or the occasional broker who was out trying to enjoy himself with one of his many girlfriends. There was something different about the man at the bar who had asked for a neat scotch. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. He was dressed in all black, his hair longish, unkempt, no facial hair, pale skin. She straightened out the baggy white pants that made up her uniform and failed to pull down the long-sleeved cropped black knit turtleneck that made up the other of the uniform. It slid right back up her stomach, exposing a small bit of tanned, tone belly.

She smiled to herself and sat the tray of dirty dishes down near him, placing them slowly into the dishwasher. Samantha liked talking to new customers, more importantly ones who didn't seem like the rest of the clients in the bar. It was an enlightening experience for her. His dark eyes stayed forward, focusing on something at the other end of the bar. His stare was lethal. She swallowed and wiped her hands clean on a dish towel on the counter, turning her head on her shoulder to see if she could see what he was staring at. "You usually come to bars alone?" she asked, holding herself up by her hands against the bar. He nodded his head, lips tight as he drank another sip of scotch, eyes still ahead.

"I just like to drink," he answered with the smallest of smiles. Samantha smiled at him this time as he made eye contact. "I'm not much of a people person."

"Says the guy in a jazz bar during spring break." His lip twitched upwards, a little higher and he cast his eyes down on the amber liquid before him.

"The noise kinda helps me think." She nodded, pouring herself a glass of water as a couple approached her from the side, ordering two beers. Without having to look she procured to bottles from the refrigerator that sat at her feet, popping the caps off and placing a napkin down on the counter in record speed. She gave them a large, polite smile when they handed her over a twenty and told her to keep the change. The brokers may have had their nasty habits and their five girlfriends, but there was no denying their great tipping. She stuffed the money into her pants pocket and wiped down the counter out of habit, watching the couple head back out into the sea of people. "Have you worked here long?" he asked, carefully setting his empty glass down after draining what was left in it. She shrugged as she pulled out the bottle of scotch, pouring him another glass.

"About three months."

"That explains why I haven't seen you before."

"You come in here often?"

"I've been overseas for work. Just got back last week." Samantha nodded and filled a few more empty drinks for the patrons sitting around him.

"What is it you do for work?" she asked, curious. He only appeared to be a few years older than her and was dressed nice, but did not resemble the personality of those who came in fitting that same description. Most were flashy, arrogant, and cocky. This man did not appear to be any of those things.

"Hey Sammy! You gotta 'nother high ball down here? I haven't been able to clean an' the one I had jus' broke!" a loud, accented voice yelled, coming to stand at her side. Patrick, one of the seasoned bartenders, roamed through her clean glasses, glancing up as he caught the eyes of someone familiar. "Ah! John! How're ya doin'?" Patrick asked enthusiastically, giving Samantha's hip a gentle shove so he could shake the man's hand. Her mystery patron gave a full smile this time, exposing straight white teeth, but it never reached his eyes. He extended his hand to Patrick, shaking it stiffly, one time, up and down. "I see ya met Samantha! She's mighty good, she been takin' good care of ya? Sammy, this here's John Wick, be sure to take special care of him now. He's one of my favorites." He wiped the high ball he stole from her pile off onto a dish towel and disappeared back to his side of the bar, leaving Samantha and John alone. His lip quirked up as she turned back to look at her co-worker, eyes narrowed. John Wick was one of Patrick's favorites, when the man barely spoke any more than what he had to. She found that hard to believe when Patrick could essentially have a full blown conversation in his sleep. She checked on the customers at her part of the bar before setting out to bus the tables that were near the dance floor, squeezing her way in and out of dancing couples and groups. Back at the bar, she set herself on the task of loading the dishwasher while scanning for any new customers in her area.

"Are you in school?" John asked, barely audible over the music. She was surprised she had been able to hear him. Samantha nodded, rubbing her hands clean on a dish towel. "What are you studying?"

"Nursing," she answered, throwing a few more glasses into the dishwasher. "I'm in my last year, I graduate in a few months."

"Impressive."

"I'm ready for it to be over," she admitted, shamelessly with a short smile. Nursing school was definitely hard. It had its drawbacks. No social life, barely any time for work. Samantha was scheduled to work at the bar for four nights a week and worked at the diner down the street on Saturday mornings for tips. It was tough being a college student, but even tougher being one in New York City. It was so expensive and her mom could only afford to give her so much money a month. She didn't have the heart to tell her that what she sent barely lasted a week between taxi fares, book rental fees, tuition, food, trying to save for an apartment after graduation, and the rare splurge on non-educational books and clothing. Three days out of the week she was at the hospital for ten hours, giving her just enough time to run home, shower, and drag herself into work. The other two days she was at the university, trying to keep it together during four two hour long lectures. She knew nursing was going to be hard. Her mom had warned her plenty of times before she had even started taking classes, but this was undeniably the hardest she had ever worked for anything. It was almost over and soon she would take boards after graduation and move on into the hospital, desperately seeking a place in the emergency room.

"Soon enough. You graduate in May?" Samantha nodded. "Not too far off."

"I wouldn't be mad if it came a lot sooner." Her eyes glazed over him as he took to watching someone or something at the opposite end of the bar again, his jaw tightening just a hair. She faltered for a moment, pausing, wondering if she should turn around this time. _No._ She wet her lips and smiled – _words._ "What is it you do, John?"

"I'm in security." She glanced behind her shoulder when he didn't make eye contact. There were too many people to take notice of anyone in particular, she shrugged it off and took to wiping the counter again, scanning the customers before her to gather any empty glasses. Satisfied with the condition of her area she leaned up against the bar, taking a moment to enjoy the steady crooning of the band onstage. They were playing "Mood Indigo." The words called to her in particular. She was lonely and overworked. She was looking forward to the days when she could go out dancing. Her body had plenty of training in running on only a few hours of sleep, it was exciting to think about all of the free time she had ahead of her. There would be time for dating, something she hadn't had time for since high school. She had tried a few times during the summer breaks in college with no success. There was no way they could fit into her schedules when school started up again. Her mom assured her it was natural to want a relationship, but encouraged her not to do it until school ended. It was a lot harder said than done with all of the temptation everywhere. Her new customer included.

"I gotta admit, I don't know much about security," she teased. The corner of his mouth pulled up and he finished off his second glass of scotch.

"Wouldn't expect you to with the schooling you've had," he replied, the soft smile on his face again.

"Ready for another?" she asked, reaching down to grab the bottle. He shook his head.

"I think I've done just about all of the thinking I can do for one night," he answered, handing her over two twenty dollar bills. She made his change and he held his hand up. "Keep it." She stared down at the eighteen dollars left over and swallowed. _Must be some security officer_ she quirked, putting the money into her pocket. Samantha thanked him and John waved his hand at her, rising up from the stool he had claimed as his for a while. "Have a good night," John muttered with another short smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Night," she called back to him as he disappeared in the crowd.

The next night she had hardly expected John to come back, but he did. She questioned Patrick about him as they stood in the locker room before work. The bar was starting to fill up and they had a lot of prepping to do, but she couldn't help herself. Patrick told her what he knew, which didn't seem to be much. John worked for a private security company that would send him overseas occasionally and he rarely came to the bar with anyone. He was 26, only four years older than her, and had been coming to the bar since before Patrick could remember. He remembered being introduced to John when he started working at the bar a few years ago. Mostly, he and Patrick just talked sports or music or alcohol, nothing outside of that. Samantha adjusted the sleeve of her shirt, debating on whether or not to ask Patrick anymore questions. "How often does he come in?" she asked, curiously. A part of her had hoped he would tonight, she had put some effort into being noticed by him, but she couldn't quite figure out why. She didn't know much about him besides the fact that he was a great tipper, easy on the eyes, and either shy or very closed off. Either way, she was intrigued and determined to get to know him better.

"Ya know, I really don't know," Patrick replied, slipping his dress shoes on. Samantha nodded, frowning slightly as she took in her barely curled blonde hair and eyeliner traced eyes. She had hurried back to her dorm from the hospital just to try and make herself look a little more prepared than usual. It was all really silly and she knew she didn't have time for a relationship or any type of crush, but it was nice to feel wanted. It didn't hurt to feel wanted sometimes. There hadn't been many men in the city that she had been interested in, but John struck her as something different altogether. She was willing to sacrifice a few hours of studying to attempt to be noticed. Before she had a chance to ask him anything else Patrick opened the small wooden door that separated their locker room area from the bar, gesturing for him to follow.

Samantha grossly underestimated how busy it was going to be for a Thursday night. She was shaking a variety of cocktails, feeling the burn in her arms after a few hours, her eyes constantly scanning the entire length of the bar for her dark acquaintance. Hours ticked by and he still hadn't shown up. Defeat began to roll around in her gut as she looked down at the clock behind the bar, it was midnight. John had come in at 10:30 the night before. It was hopeless. With a short sigh, she greeted the next small batch of customers with a smile that didn't resemble her insides.

She cleaned the counter top, rubbing it down with more force than usual, semi-mad at herself for thinking this way about a stranger she didn't know. It was a silly crush and she was upset with herself for thinking she could attract him. There wouldn't be enough time for dating. He would grow tired of not being able to fit into her schedule and they would break apart, just like usual. She could already picture the entire scenario in her head. The band began to play a soft, gentle tune and she leaned against the bar, watching some of couples group up and sway on the dance floor. Four years was a long time to stay focused on a goal and she could feel the weight sinking her down, all of the responsibilities she had to keep. Her first week out of college was already planned out. There was a long list of the bars and clubs she was going to hit with some of her nursing school friends. They were just as stir crazy as she was, ready to get out and experience life rather than drudging through the week to the next exam. The song quickly switched to something more upbeat and Samantha pulled herself away from the counter, refocusing herself on making drinks.

There was plenty of time left until the end of the semester for her to get to know John better. It was foolish to think that she was going to learn all there was to know about him in one night, he was hard as hell to read and barely spoke more than a few words at a time. The time shifted to one in the morning and she could start to feel her bones call for her bed. Shifting her weight between her feet, she fought a yawn as another slow song began to play. Some of the people at the bar began to shuffle out, trying to catch sleep before work in the morning. A large portion of her section left and she started to collect the dirty glasses and tips cluttering the area. "Hey Sammy," a deep, gravelly voice spoke. Samantha looked up from the dishwasher and smiled at John, who had seated himself in the same stool as yesterday, leaning into the bar on his forearms.

"Hey John, what can I get for ya?" she asked through a smile, tossing a dish towel into the corner where the bar met the wall.

"Scotch, neat, please." _Of course_. With a few short flicks of her wrist she placed a clean napkin and glass before him with one hand while the other held onto the bottle and poured. "Thank you," he mumbled, taking a drink the second it was full.

"I didn't think you came here that often." He shrugged as his nose scrunched up, swallowing a large mouthful.

"I don't usually."

"Rough day?" John nodded, meeting her gaze before his eyes cast back down the bar. She didn't even make an attempt to turn around this time. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"I know what it's like to have rough days." There was at least one day out of the week she would find herself crying for no particular reason other than stress. It was something she started expecting every week. His eyes didn't move from down the bar.

John stayed longer than what he had last night, he drank his scotch a lot slower after the second glass. They made small conversation back and forth, his eyes still drifting off to something she still hadn't been able to spot. At 2:45 Samantha and Patrick called last call, at this point most of the crowd filled out. A few stragglers stayed at the bar as the band played their final song, wishing everyone a safe ride home. John was still seated at the bar, drinking water. "Will you be back tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes more hazy than before. She nodded and smiled, collecting dirty glasses as fast as she could.

"You have a long walk ahead of you?" John asked, eyes distant again. She turned this time, halfway hoping to spot what he was looking at. It just seemed like the normal crowd, no one or nothing out of the usual. Her mission to snatch up his attention had failed. Perhaps there was a cuter girl at the other end of the bar. She wasn't completely sure, but it was hopeless. Maybe he had come back to talk to the hottie he had been eyeing at the opposite end of the bar?

"I usually get a taxi home this late. The subway's a little too much for me." Samantha never dared try to go to the subway after midnight. It was one of those things she had done to calm her mom's nerves. It was her only stipulation if she decided to actually go to Columbia instead of staying at home and going to some Midwestern college. He swallowed the rest of his water in one quick gulp, handing her the glass before fanning out his suit jacket and adjusting the collar.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," he told her, giving her that short, half smile of his. Samantha smiled, fully, dropping his glass into the dishwasher.

"Yep!" John gave her a single nod of his head and made his way towards the exit, giving Patrick a wave of his hand.

It didn't take her and Patrick long to clean up the bar area. It was their duty as the head bartenders and they tried to start cleaning well before last call to get out at a decent enough hour. Samantha's body was yelling and screaming for sleep. After spending 10 hours on her feet at the hospital then 9 at the bar, it was all she could do to walk to the sidewalk for a taxi. Patrick closed up while she took a small bag of trash to the dumpster outside in the alley. The large metal door separating the alley from the bar closed with a loud thud, leaving Samantha outside. She huffed as she hiked the trash bag up and dropped it into the nearest dumpster.

"Well, what have we got here," a man spoke, his words coming out in a snarl. She inhaled sharply, eyes widening ever-so slightly. Her body froze, hands dropping to her sides as she stared at the dirty brick wall that made up the building of the bar.

"Something I can help you with?" Samantha asked, swallowing hard. Her mouth became dry out of nowhere. She attempted to wet her lips, but failed. Usually Patrick helped her take the trash out and tonight she wished they would have followed their schedule instead of splitting up the duties to cut down on time.

"I can think of a few ways ya can help," a second voice chimed in, voice barely above a whisper. "Why don't ya turn around an' let us 'ave a look." Everything in her was telling her to scream, but her throat wouldn't articulate the sounds. She turned on her heel slowly, hands still at her sides. Her uncle had warned her before about carrying mace or some type of weapon, but she never felt like she really needed to. The city hadn't been as bad as her mom had thought, up until now. The men were dressed in suits. One was holding a cigar between his teeth, rubbing his large, meaty hands before him as he raked his eyes up and down her body. She was still wearing her uniform for the bar, a cropped black turtleneck and her baggy white pants. Any other time the uniform didn't bother her so much, but at this moment, it was too revealing. His gaze felt like a hot poker to her chest. It was painful and disgusting at the same time. Samantha's tip money was secured in the small over the shoulder purse she was wearing, but she doubted it would be her money for much longer.

"Why don't you come on back to the house with us," the first man crowed, reaching out to run his fingers through her blonde hair. He took a step closer to her, his chest just inches from brushing up against her. Her fists tightened, her body struggling to stop the involuntary shudder that wanted to unleash itself.

"Or you could just go home alone," a third voice tacked on. The two men turned to find the owner of the last voice. Samantha swallowed hard, her eyes darting between the three figures before her, unable to make sense of who the last voice belonged to due to the shadows of the alley. The light above the door from the bar wasn't as bright as it should have been and didn't do much visibility wise.

"Who the fuck do ya think ya are comin' over an' messin' with us? We're jus' talkin' to the little lady. That's all."

"I doubt it," the third man argued back, the anger riding on his every word.

"We don't have time for this shit, man. You leave us alone or you're going to regret it." The man without the cigar pulled back his suit jacket, exposing a gun tucked away in his waistband. Samantha's heart leaped into her throat, leaving behind a hole in her chest that she desperately tried to fill with air. Her breathing increased, eyes landing on the man in the middle.

"I tried to warn you." Samantha wasn't sure if she would have seen everything that had happened next if she hadn't been so afraid. The man in the center punched his hands out at the same time, hitting both men in the throats. They stumbled back for air, one reaching for his gun. He was rewarded for doing so with a punch to his stomach and a hit to his neck as he hunched over. The second man stood up straight, his hands up above his head as he gasped for air, his cigar rolling on the ground, forgotten about in the scuffle. Her rescuer stepped into the light and she swallowed again, hard, her eyes taking in the sight of John, who was breathing heavily, his short hair wild and messy. "Get the hell out of here," John growled, reaching to grab the man's gun. He placed it into his own waistband and stood, fists at his sides. The men made no inclination as to move as John stepped in front of Samantha, his back to her. "What part of get the hell out of here don't you understand?" he growled, shoving the guy closest to him. The men cursed under their breaths and slowly dragged themselves out of the alley, away from John and Samantha.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" Samantha asked quietly, staring at the barely visible seam of his suit where his shoulder and arm met.

"Work," he answered simply. "Are you alright?" He turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders to hold her out at arm's length. His eyes examined her quickly before landing on her face. His expression was darker than what it had been at the bar the last two nights. She swallowed and shakily raised her hands up to smooth her hair down.

"I'm - uh - " she wet her lips and adjusted the strap on her purse, urging her heart to return to its usual place in her chest. It wasn't willing to make that journey quite yet, still tangled up in the base of her throat, unsure of what to do with itself. "I think so," she finished, pulling at the hem of her shirt.

"What were you doing out here?" John asked, his expression lightening ever so slightly.

"Taking out the trash. What about yourself?"

"I had been watching those guys in the bar. They had been staring at you since I came in." So he hadn't been checking out someone at the other end of the bar? She allowed a small amount of relief to settle on her shoulders.

"So, you waited around the alley for them?"

"I followed them." Samantha nodded, adjusting the strap of her purse again.

"W-why?" She blinked rapidly, the sound of a horn made her jump out of fear. The relief was quickly replaced by panic, worry settling right into the place her air was supposed to go, John's lips quirked up at the sight. He shook his head and held his hand out to her.

"Come on, I know a place that'll cheer you up."

"That doesn't answer my question," she insisted, staring at his hand.

"I'll answer your questions when we get to where we're going."

"Which is?"

"It's a surprise," he tacked on, pushing his hand a little closer to her. She exhaled slowly before putting her small hand into his. She wasn't expecting him to be quite so warm and she definitely wasn't expecting his skin to be quite so rough either. They walked out onto the sidewalk, and he adjusted her hand so her arm was laced with his. He stood up a little taller, making his height that much more obvious. She hadn't really recognized that he was a whole head taller than she was, making him that much more desirable. He was wearing cologne she wasn't able to place, a mixture of apple and musk. All she wanted to do was try and get to know him better, hoping that it would conquer whatever small high school crush she had on him. Now, she was walking arm and arm with him to some unknown location after he finished saving what may have been her life. Class started early in the morning, at 8 am. She knew it was early, sometime around 3:30, but she couldn't stop herself from following him.

They walked a few blocks, John still holding her against him like she would crumble without him beside her. She was able to take in the entirety of his form, board shoulders, thin waist, and tall, long legs. His bicep was noticeable under her hand and she found herself wondering if the rest of his body matched. Her cheeks reddened at this thought. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling. They stopped outside of a diner, the lights from inside lit up the sidewalk, the windows in the front were large and inviting. Chalk drawings of pie and coffee caught her eye on the small stand-up board before the front door. "They have great pie," John commented, opening the door for her. For the first time since the alley, he had let go of her, allowing her to walk in on her own. She bowed her head and took a cautious step inside. Inside, she was instantly greeted with the calming scent of coffee and baked goods. Her nerves settled and she smiled, John stepped up behind her, his chest pressed against her back. He asked the one of the servers that was standing in the corner for 'his booth.' The server waved him in, his eyebrow cocking up as he met Samantha's gaze.

"I don't think I've ever been here," Samantha told him, setting herself down in the booth John stood before, watching her climb in before taking a seat in the opposite booth. He pulled his suit jacket off, exposing a white, semi-fitted dress shirt. With precision, he rolled the sleeves up a few times, keeping his eyes low, focused on the task at hand. She watched his motions, carefully studying the muscles in his forearms and hands _. Pie._ She tried to take her mind away from staring at him, but it was difficult. He cleared his throat after a few seconds and she blinked quickly, her blue eyes snapping up to meet his dark stare. His expression resembled more of what she had seen in the bar. With appropriate lighting she was able to take in just how pale he was, his skin ivory, contrasting against his black hair and brown eyes. His face was long, accompanying a long nose and forehead. It was the first time she had really been able to take in what he looked like and she was regretting it. He was just as attractive as she had thought he was. Swallowing, she forced herself to grab a menu, burying her face in it as he kept his focus on her. A server approached, taking John's attention away from Samantha. John gave the man, Brian, a rare, teeth baring smile, shaking the man's hand as they spoke.

"I haven't seen you in here in ages!" Brian shouted, clapping his hand down on John's shoulder. John continued to smile and gave a short chuckle.

"I know, work has been hell. I keep telling myself I'm gonna get away and then something else happens," John replied.

"Jesus, I know. Work is always hell, _right?_ I tell myself one day I'm gonna take a vacation and then, shit hits the fan." They exchanged a short laugh and Brian's eyes turned to Samantha. "Who is your friend? You don't bring many friends in to see us, John."

"This is Samantha. Sammy, Brian. Brian, Samantha." She held her hand out and Brian took it in both of his, giving it a gentle shake. She smiled politely.

"She's beautiful, John. You need to bring in more friends. I hate always seeing you so alone!" Brian told him, letting go of Samantha's hands so he could give John a gentle backhanded slap on his shoulder. John's smile was gone now, replaced by that half smirk of his. "I'll bring you both some pie and some coffee. Samantha, could I get you some water?"

"Coffee's fine, thank you," Samantha replied with a shake of her head. John's expression became tight, borderline painful. There was a twitch in his brow. She scrolled through the menu again, unsure of what to say. John said nothing. She listened to the gentle hum coming from what she assumed was the neon light in the window. The padding in the booth wasn't the most comfortable thing she had sat on, but it was nice to sit down. Her legs throbbed and ached. She was grateful she didn't have to be at the hospital until Monday. John held his hands together on the table. He cracked his knuckles and rubbed his thumbs into the pads of his palms, eyes drifting to the window behind Samantha. She sighed and sat the menu down.

"So do you usually go to bars and scope out dangerous looking men who appear to be preying upon bartenders, or is that just a coincidence?" Samantha asked as Brian sat two cups of coffee down before them with a small pitcher of creamer. John brought the coffee to his lips and smirked.

"I've seen them around before."

"And you just thought they would pick tonight of all nights to harass me?" she questioned, pouring a small dash of creamer into her cup, stirring it around with two quick flicks of her spoon.

"They had been watching how much money you were putting in your pocket. They were there yesterday too." She took a large gulp of coffee and covered her mouth, holding the coffee in her mouth for a moment to avoid choking on it. "You should be more careful about your tips." Setting the mug down she forced herself to swallow.

"But, what you did in the alley? I mean - how did you learn how to do that?"

"It's my job to know how to do that."

"Security?" He gave her a stiff nod that earned him an eye roll from her. She folded her arms across her chest and tried to shake the sleepiness from her eyes.

"You don't believe me, do you?" She shook her head. "I'm not allowed to tell you about my job, Samantha." It was the first time he had called her by her full name. She took it as a warning, but still couldn't stop herself from asking anyway.

"Why not?" she asked, curiously.

"Contracts." They made eye contact with Brian as he slid a plate of apple pie and ice cream in front of each of them. John muttered a thank you to him. He smiled at them before walking off to the other side of the diner.

"Contracts?" The word came out of her mouth like it was foreign and she had never heard it used before, her nose scrunching up a hair.

"Yes. My employers like their privacy." She nodded, eating a scoopful of ice cream as he continued to sip on his coffee.

"You should try the pie," he suggested, watching as she took another bite of ice cream. "I don't know what he puts in it, but it's amazing." She looked at his plate then back at him. He hadn't even touched his.

"Says the man who hasn't touched his," she quipped with a short smile.

"I'm not very hungry." A look of disgust passed his face and he sat his mug down, rubbing his thumb up and down the handle.

"Now I know you're not human. Who says no to pie?" she teased, taking a bite of her own. He chuckled lightly, staring at his mug, examining it like he had just pulled it out of an archeological dig site.

"How far do you live from here?"

"Not too far. Maybe five to seven blocks east."

"Are you okay to walk?" he asked, finally bringing his eyes up to meet hers. She felt a blush creep across her cheeks. Maybe it was the expression he used or the way he was just sitting there, too attractive for his own good, or the way he had saved her life so flawlessly not all too long ago, but she was still eager to learn more about him.

"Yeah," Samantha answered, trying to keep the tone in her voice when all she felt like she could do was squeak. John nodded, sitting in silence while she finished her pie. The silence was calming. It was rare to find someone she actually felt comfortable enough to sit in silence with. Her mother had always said it was a rare and redeeming quality to find in a man. It meant you didn't need to speak all of the time, that things could just be understood with a look – to her mom, that was real love, real intimacy. Her mind was buzzing with questions she wanted to ask him, but she was afraid she would take it too far, that he would become disinterested by her if she spoke too much. She chewed quietly, taking a sip of coffee to wash the rest of the pie down, shifting in her seat.

"I told you it was good pie," he commented. No one brought a bill, but she did happen to notice the two twenties on the table. John stood, grabbed his suit jacket and held his hand out for Samantha. She dragged herself out of the seat, grabbing John's hand as she went to stand. He draped his jacket over her shoulders and walked ahead, opening the door as she neared it after calling out a good-bye to Brian, who replied with a short lecture about not waiting so long to see him the next time. He escorted her onto the street, holding his arm out in the same gesture. She smiled to him and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, shocked to feel how warm he was under the dress shirt. His sleeves were still rolled up, gaze on the concrete beneath their feet.

As they walked towards her dorm she felt her feet screaming for relief below her. It was time to take her shoes off, take a hot shower and climb under the covers. Her legs felt as though they were stepping through molasses, each step harder to take then the last one. Almost being mugged was traumatic and the adrenaline had seemed to keep her awake a tad longer than she was attuned to, but it was time for sleep now. She yawned loudly without hiding it this time, her shoulders and arms shaking as the yawn subsided. "You look like you could sleep for a year," John spoke, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them, scanning the alleys they walked past.

"Thanks," she muttered, burying her head a little closer to his jacket to smell him. That dark chuckle of his escaped his lips.

"I don't get much sleep myself. I've gotten kinda used to that look." Samantha swallowed and tightened her hold on his arm as they neared a small group of people on the corner of the street ahead of them. "It's okay," he muttered, glancing down to look at her. Her lip quirked up as they made eye contact. She didn't doubt that he would do what he could to keep to her safe. Usually she didn't have to worry about being safe, she just was. The alley made her all too aware that there was still danger lurking out there. Just because it hadn't made itself apparent to her didn't mean anything. The group on the corner dispersed as they got a few feet away and she exhaled with relief.

"Do you live far away from here?" she asked.

"I live in the same block as the diner we were at. It's a good thing I don't actually live above the diner though, I don't know if I'd be able to do my job."

"Why's that?"

"The pie," he replied with a small laugh. Samantha laughed, holding herself a little closer to him as a quick spring breeze blew through them.

The campus was dead. It was 4:30 in the morning and no one in their right mind had an excuse to be awake that early except for Samantha. Her building was close to the outer rim of the large campus that made up Columbia University. At her door, she shrugged his jacket off and handed it back to him. John put it back on and adjusted the sleeves as she dug in her purse for her keys, trying to busy herself so she didn't have to look at him. "Thank you," she spoke, fumbling for the right key on her key ring.

"Anytime," he replied, the left side of his lip quirking up. She nodded and smiled.

"So I'll see you later tonight?" He nodded.

"Have a good day, Sammy."

"You too."

 

* * *

 

**August 2014**

 

* * *

 

"Jesus," Samantha muttered, her eyes focusing on Michael, who was still standing in front of her, waiting for her answer.

"My complex isn't that out of control, is it?" Michael questioned, his graying eyebrows threading together.

"No, I mean – sorry – I can't come to that surgery, I've gotta check on our ICU patients. Linda should be able to help," she replied. Linda hadn't been in any of the surgeries yet and to take over John's surgery would be taking control freak to entirely new level. It's not that Samantha didn't trust Linda with patients, it was just easier to make up a lie about the current situation instead of facing the real facts about why she didn't want to go into that room. If John died while she was there, she didn't know if she would be able to handle it. She wasn't even sure she could handle being in the same room with him at this point. Michael patted her shoulder and walked off quickly towards the OR, leaving Samantha in the hallway, unable to focus.

She dragged herself back to the break room. She was sitting with the fruit in front of her again, but hadn't taken a bite of it. Her eyes caught sight of the clock and she exhaled before resting her head on the wooden table, arms bundled under her head to keep her face from touching it. She hadn't seen John in years, damn near close to six. Their last talk hadn't been the most pleasant. There was a lot of yelling. A lot of unspoken feelings that had presented themselves all at once, on top of John admitting he was a hired hitman around the city. And now, he was downstairs in the OR being operated on by the people she considered family. With a heavy exhale she tugged at the stethoscope from around her neck and laid it on the table beside her fruit. The door crashed open and Samantha didn't budge.

"Michael told me I'd find your ass here. What the hell is your deal?" a familiar spoke. She raised her head to make eye contact with her friend, Rachel. Rachel was one of the top nurse practitioners in the hospital. "God, you look like hell. Are you feeling alright? Is that why you skipped surgery?" Samantha shrugged her shoulders and slid her container of fruit closer, shifting through the mixture to try and find a piece that she thought her stomach would handle.

"I just needed to check on my ICU patients," she answered, settling on the strawberry from earlier. She popped it into her mouth and smoothed her long hair down, avoiding eye contact as Rachel took the seat at the table across from her.

"Is that all?"

"No."

"Is it Thatcher?"

"No." Rachel sat quietly, adjusting her light blue scrubs and pulling off the scrub cap that held back her dark brown hair. "Yes." Her eyes darted up and Rachel smirked.

"Something happen?" The smirk instantly falling away to give way to concern.

"Oh, aside from _dying_? Not too much." Rachel rolled her eyes and pulled a piece of cantaloupe out of Samantha's container.

"You could have just started with that," she mumbled through a mouthful of fruit.

"And ruin all of the fun? _Never_."

"Did someone come in from a car accident?" Samantha scoffed and folded her arms across her chest, wishing that had really been the case.

"I wish it was that simple."

"Well what the hell is it then? I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"I'm not thinking about anything, Rachel."

" _You're thinking about Thatcher_ ," she rallied back after a moment.

"No."

"Then who?"

"Someone I don't really want to talk about."


	3. Haldol

**Author's Note: Clearly, I didn't forget about this story. Lol. Seems like I did though there for a bit. Kinda lost my muse, but John Wick 2 has definitely rekindled that flame. I haven't seen the second one yet. This one will sort of be my own version of the second movie (I'm guessing it has to do with Viggo's family coming after John). If it doesn't, well - no good excuses there. I don't have a beta and I am 100% guilty about not re-reading my stories until later. I just have a tendency to change things if I read it too soon after I publish it.**

**So thankful for all of the interest this story has acquired over the last few weeks, I know there aren't many John Wick stories out there.**

**This will be a slow burn, rekindling. Both characters have shit to work through. This chapter will start to open up the wounds still left behind.**

**I'm trying out this writing style to practice, I don't know how much I like it, but so far it seems to work with the feel I'm going for.**

**Thank you!**

* * *

**October 2014**

* * *

"You've really done something stupid this time, haven't you?" he heard. He couldn't see, only hear. He paused and tried to assess as much as he could about his surroundings. John inhaled taking in the harsh, industrial smell of detergent. The lights were bright enough that he could see them through his eyelids. There was a steady beeping of a monitor nearby. _Hospital_. His body ached in places he didn't know it could, a steady, dull throb intensified in his chest as he came more and more to. "I just can't believe you are doing this to yourself again!" the voice whispered, but it sounded angry. He knew the voice. He was familiar with it, his head clutched for any type of clue as to who it could be, running through a list of people he knew. Swallowing, he dared to open his eyes, instantly shutting them when he saw the light.

"John Wick, if you're awake you better open your eyes and start talking," the voice growled, sounding as if were inches from his ear. "Or I'll scream and call everyone into this room and we both know what'll happen if that happens." John squinted, struggling against the weight of his eyelids to force his eyes to open, wanting to see who the voice belonged to. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on anything but the blinding white light that seemed to pour in from every angle. He knew the woman. He knew her well. He just had to place her voice. He blinked a few more times, struggling against sore muscles and pain to sit up. Samantha. Her name rushed into his head too fast, like whirlwind, he swallowed hard and grit his teeth, sitting up the rest of the way. He could feel eyes on him, but the light was still too much. Shielding his view with his right hand he turned to look in the direction of her voice, only to find her buried under a blanket in a chair, her arms wrapped around herself, a laptop balancing on her knees.

"I thought you were retired," she spoke, her eyes focused on the screen before her. She sounded bored and angry.

"Nice to see you too," John grunted, rolling his right shoulder.

"I wish I could say the same," she taunted back. The night of their argument years ago danced in the background and he pushed it away, not able to take the mental pain on top of the physical.

"I didn't plan on coming to Bellevue, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy." Choosing to ignore that he knew she still worked at Bellevue, she snapped the lid to her laptop shut and shifted in the chair, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders a little tighter. Her eyes could pierce through him, causing more damage than most fights he had been in. Sighing she stood up and snapped shut the blinds that separated his room from the hallway, effectively closing them off from everyone else. "What's going on? Why are you working again?"

"It's personal."

"You've been gone for what five years now? What kind of personal business did you need to wrap up so late in the game?" He swallowed and she turned away from the window, her body angled towards the door.

"It's complicated."

"So uncomplicate it."

"Have you called Thatcher yet?" John asked curiously, wondering why his friend hadn't came barging through the door yet, demanding answers for where in the hell he had been and why he hadn't seen him in years.

"Thatcher's dead, John." The sentence broke down the cool metal wall he had been trying to build up against her.

* * *

**April 1999**

* * *

He never entirely meant for his life to take the turn it did. He spent a lot of nights wondering how it came to this, but he knew the answer. The money was too nice and so was the respect. John's younger self became embedded in crime after a night of drinking and fighting at a local bar. His friend, Thatcher Warren, had gotten into a fight with one of the other patrons in the bar, who just so happened to be related to some mob boss that controlled Staten Island. He offered his services to keep Thatcher out of the mobster world, throwing himself in front of his friend like he usually did. John owed Thatcher a lifetime of debts. After a few small jobs, John was going to be relieved of his duty, but after they saw him work - They had been impressed and wanted to hire him. He made the decision quickly and irrationally, just like any young 20 something would with the promise for money. Money he wasn't used to. Thousands upon thousands of dollars at once to use his skill. Once he was in, it was too hard to get out. Within months people knew his name. Jobs in the crime syndicate would fluctuate, the highest bidder winning the skill they were seeking. He simply went by John. No one needed to know anything else. It only took a few deaths to stop the blackmailing.

He liked it.

He liked knowing the control he had, more specifically the control he had over the entirety of New York City's mobs. People from all walks of life needed and wanted him for themselves. He was able to con information out of some to turn in for anonymous tips on top of the money he made working the streets. It was hard to escape from and he tried a few times without success. Something would happen and draw him right back in. The pretty blonde bartender at his favorite thinking place was doing nothing to keep him out of trouble. He was trying to avoid the jobs. But he wasn't able to avoid watching over her that night. John knew the men who had been watching her and knew what they were capable of. Damn him for not being able to resist the urge he had to protect her. Talk about what happened

Samantha went on break for a few minutes, leaving Patrick in charge of the bar. He approached John with his normal extroverted, loud, happy self, a cheerful smile on his face. His ruddy complexion made it hard to tell where his face and hair separated, his hair the same bright red color of his cheeks. He was stocky and tall to compliment the fighting that John knew he did on the side for money. They had ran into each other more than once out in the streets doing something that neither one of them wanted the world to know about. Patrick smiled at him, white teeth contrasting with red. John took a sip of his drink and eyeballed the men who he watched come in, ensuring that Samantha was safe.

"You two are gettin' pretty darn close," Patrick spoke, wiping down the inside of a glass with a dish towel. "I haven't known ya to get attached to people, John."

"That makes two of us," he quipped back, scrunching his nose up as he swallowed.

"Mind yourself will ya. This girl is smart. She's gettin' ready to graduate."

"Everything would have been fine if you would have been there in the alley that night."

"Oh, don't ya blame this on me," he warned, keeping the smile on his face as he poured a drink for someone a few stools over.

"Hard not to." His eyebrow quirked up at his dark friend, his smile faltering a little.

"I didn't purposefully send her out there ya know? I love that girl. Been lookin' after her since she started. Taught her almost all of what I know. Why would I send her out - " John held his hand up, palm facing him.

"That's not what I meant. You think I want to get her involved in this mess, Patrick?" He tightened his grip around his lowball glass, trying to contain the anger that was barreling against the doors to his mind, begging to be released. "This girl has no business with a guy like me. I know that."

"So why do ya keep showin' up an' walkin' her home every night?" Patrick asked, lowly, leaning against the bar in front of him. John swallowed and took to staring at the liquor before him. He didn't have a good answer. It felt good to be wanted. He knew what Samantha really wanted. He saw the look in her eye that first night he came in. He noted the way she held herself a little tighter to his side the past week. That's what made helping her even worse, because he couldn't deny her. He allowed her to snuggle a little closer and allowed for her to look at him that way, knowing it was almost impossible for them to have sort of relationship. The left side of his mouth quirked up with the memory of last night, the way she gripped his arm when they crossed the street, her hair blowing around, blonde hair everywhere. Maybe just the fact that she was so out of reach to him made him want her even worse. He wasn't entirely sure, but he knew for an entire list of reasons why it wouldn't be a good thing to get involved with her and vice versa. "All I'm askin' is that ya quit leadin' the poor girl on. She can't stop askin' about ya an' I don't know what else to say." John replied with a single nod. He handed him over a hundred dollar bill and left the bar, hoping to find another place to think for a while.

3 am came a lot faster than he had planned. He was three blocks away at a smaller, newer jazz bar surrounded by the same crowd he would get at The Columns. It had the same feel, the same atmosphere, there was only one thing missing: Samantha. He had consumed his fair share of scotch inside the small place, not registering that they had called last call already and were pushing him out on the street. His dark eyes widened at the thought of Samantha waiting outside for him, alone. There had been inside the bar that would definitely hurt her if she gave them the chance. He broke out into a steady jog, hoping to make it to her before she could get into a taxi or do something worse: wait for himself outside.

John relaxed when he made it to the bar, the light above the door still glowing indicating that Patrick and Samantha hadn't quite finished up inside just yet. He rested up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, staring down at his watch, his eyes following the minute hand. After a few minutes, Samantha emerged from the front door with Patrick, laughing. Patrick's gaze hardened when he and John made eye contact. Samantha didn't notice, her smile growing just a bit more wider in his presence. He did his best to ignore it. Samantha and Patrick exchanged good-byes as John held his arm out for her, his body turned in the direction of the diner.

"Where did you go?" she asked him, adjusting the strap of her purse before entangling her arm with his.

"I met up with a friend," he lied, not wanting to tell her the real reasons for why he had to leave: because I'm attached to you and I shouldn't be and you shouldn't be either. She nodded and kept up with his stride, her head down.

"Someone you work with?"

"Yeah, something like that." His jaw tightened as they stopped at a stoplight.

"Are you okay?" she asked simply, her eyes back on him now. He turned to face her, her blue eyes wide and innocent. She had no knowledge of the life he lived. She was genuinely interested in him for who he was. She didn't know about the million dollars he had in savings or the penthouse he lived in. She couldn't protect herself in any regard yet here she was, standing on the sidewalk with him, asking him if was okay. There was nothing he was afraid of. It took a lot to find something that scared him. He was almost late getting to her because of his own stupidity. That scared him. He swallowed and turned away from her, unable to stomach the way she was looking, trying to find an answer.

"John," Samantha whispered this time, taking her arm out of his, stepping in front of him to make him look at her. They made eye contact and he made himself look past her, down the street, afraid that in a moment of weakness, that he would do something he would regret.

"I'm alright," he struggled to get the words out, trying not to grind his teeth as the scent of her conditioner filled his senses. He was the dangerous one. He was the one she should fear. She didn't know about the things he had done, what he was capable of doing to other people. The woman beside him was afraid of the common, everyday thug. What kind of face would she make if she knew about what he did to keep food on his table? For a moment, John pictured the scene outside of The Columns, the wide-eyed look on her face and the panic... She squeezed his arm. This woman wasn't meant for him. He would kill her. Not by his own hand, of course, but by someone else's. Someone else would find his weakness. If he let himself get too close to her, it was a matter of time. She would be taken and the rest of the story would be history.

"You know, I'm a pretty decent listener if you ever wanna talk."

"I'll have to take you up on that someday," John replied with a short, half smile. He glanced down the street both ways and lead them to the other sidewalk. She kept her stride long and graceful, trying to keep up with him as they walked.

* * *

**October 2014**

* * *

"Sammy - I - I didn't know," he stumbled to get the words out of his mouth fast enough. She screwed her face up and shook her head, resting her prosthetic fore finger and thumb against the bridge of her nose. Her hair was less vibrant, had less of a glow to it. The woman before him used to glow with happiness and naivety. The world had finally gotten to her. He looked at the new metal arm that she didn't have before, unable to stop envisioning her younger self in the room with them. He could picture her, clear as day, dressed in her bartending uniform, arms folded across her chest, mouth in a straight line. "I would have been there."

"I know. I know you would have," she assured him, the anger that she desperately wanted to unleash on him retreated. An argument hung loosely behind her teeth, ready to jump on the first sign of weakness. It was partially her own fault John didn't know about Thatcher. He was left out of the arrangement. When his name had came up in the address book, she closed the book in response to seeing his name. She couldn't very well get mad at him for Thatcher's funeral quite yet. It wasn't fair. But, it wasn't fair for him to vanish either and only reappear with the wounds he had. He pursed his lips together and rolled his shoulders again.

"What happened?"

"Car accident," she whispered, pulling the blanket off of her shoulders. She pulled back on the sleeve of her light blue scrub top, giving him a show of gnarled, scarred flesh that disappeared into the black cloth sleeve of her prosthetic arm.

"I can't stay here," he spoke after a moment, dangling his legs off of the side of the bed. "People'll come lookin' for me and it won't be safe."

"Why? What did you do?" the contempt in her voice almost made him cringe. He paused, silently debating between trying to stand on his own two feet and laying back down on the bed.

"Viggo. I killed Viggo." Samantha walked before him, arms folded across her chest. With a slight shove, she knocked him back down into the bed.

"You're not going anywhere unless I say so."

"I can't stay here, Sammy. I gotta go."

"Where John? Where will you go this time?"

"Why does it matter?" he asked, glancing at the clock on the wall overhead. 4:23 am. Surely Viggo's family was already loading up on their way to track him down. John scooted to the edge of the bed again and she gave him a shove backwards.

"You were unconscious when you showed up here. The doctor that operated on you found a large internal bleed with a whole laundry list of other complications. You aren't leaving this bed, John. When I say you can go, you can go." The pair's eyes locked onto each other.

"It's not that hard to sneak out of a hospital."

"And it's not that hard to get restraints either." He stood on his feet and wobbled for a second. "Sit. Down," she ordered, grasping him around the arms before he fell forward.

"You don't understand. They will come for me."

"And so will I," she barked, unable to stop him as he ripped the intravenous line in his arm loose. "You're really testing me, aren't you?" she mumbled, reaching behind him to press the help button on his bed. A small group of three women rushed in after a few moments, carrying all sorts of supplies. "Our John Doe finally decided to join us. He's a little confused. Can I get some mitt restraints and 5mg of Haldol IV please? Gonna probably need a new IV too, seeing as he ripped this one loose." She held the IV up for the room to see as a few other nurses helped get him re-positioned in bed. His face became serious and grim, the hard lines of bruises and cuts making him seem even more pale than usual. John's eyes followed Samantha around the room as she scowled at him. A new line was placed and the Haldol was given per her order. The medication hit him harder than he had planned for, his eyes closed in seconds.

Later that morning, he woke up to the sound of a knock. The door to his room opened and Samantha shuffled in with a tall, handsome man in his 50's on her heels. The medication left him feeling groggy. He watched as the two entered then approached his bed. Samantha smiled politely at John, her face lighter and less angry than it had been hours ago. "Sir, this is the doctor that operated on you, Michael Foster. I know you don't quite remember things yet, but Dr. Foster and I wanted to assure you that we're doing everything we can to keep you healthy and safe," Samantha told him, her eyebrow cocking up at the last word. It took John a few moments to realize she was talking to him. Michael ran through a list of tests they would be doing and explained to John that his supposed amnesia would hopefully fade after a few days. After a few more examinations of wounds and scrapes, Michael left, leaving Samantha and John alone again.

"How long do you plan on doing this?" John asked, staring at the ceiling.

"For as long as I have to."

"Until you get closure?"

"This isn't about closure," she argued, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his left upper arm.

"You're risking the lives of all of the people you work with by keeping me here."

"I think we can handle a few thugs, John."

"Viggo isn't a thug, Samantha. You know that. You met him." Samantha swallowed harshly. She paused before hitting the button on the machine to take the rest of his vital signs. Samantha had, in fact, met Viggo years ago at a small party that John held. He beat up a man on the street for parking too close to his Ferrari. There were no soft edges when it came to Viggo. "The Continental has a doctor on call twenty fours a day, remember? I can go there." She read watched as his blood pressure appeared on the screen.

"Let you go so you can drag yourself back into this mess?" she asked, ripping the cuff loose from this arm. "I don't think so."

"I'm going to finish it." Silently, she walked back over to the couch, settling herself into the same position she was resting in when he woke up the first time. "After this - I'm done, Sammy."

"You said that before. A few different times if I remember correctly."

"Am I just going to sit here and argue with you until I am well enough to go home?"

"I can always get Linda in here to watch over you if you feel like you can act like you don't know who you are the entire time." He swallowed and shook his head. "Then I suggest you get used to it." She pulled the blanket up to her shoulders and settled into the arm of the couch, resting her head against a flat hospital pillow.

"How long will I be here for?"

"At least a few days. Relax. Viggo's family has no idea where you are. Promise," she yawned, trailing off. The room was silent except for the same steady beeping of his heart monitor. John relaxed, blinking, in an attempt to take his eyes off of the woman on his right.

"How long ago did Thatcher - "

"It was a while ago, John. I'd rather not talk about him right now. Just, don't, okay? It's hard enough to see you and then to talk about him - I just don't want to." He nodded. He listened to her shift on the couch, the steady rustling of sheets and blankets.

"You don't have to stay here."

"Yeah, I got that," she argued.

"Sammy, you don't have to stay here with me," he repeated, almost completely sure that she was just going to reply to him without really thinking about what he was saying.

"Trust me, I know."

"So why are you?"

"I really wish I knew, John," she added through another yawn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Surgical procedures in here, no gore descriptions. For those of you who are not medically inclined, a "CABG" is open heart surgery, it's known as: Coronary Artery Bypass Surgery. It's mentioned in here, but as I said, no descriptions of it past: "open chest cavity." I am probably one of the most inconsistent writers and I am so freakin' sorry, lol, I think I put in the earlier chapters that they hadn't seen each other in 6 years, it should be 8. I will go back and fix it later when I'm actually at home and can actually sit and mark where I have what information. For a better idea in your minds about what Samantha's prosthetic looks like, in my head it looks a bit like the Winter Soldier arm but thinner, less fluid motions and less heavier (and it's not welded to her body, it's able to be removed, etc.).**

**I did one very minor and really pathetic read through before posting!**

**Again, as always, thank you all so much for the support!**

**(P.P.S. I will try and edit Thursday and Friday this week)**

**(P.P.P.S. I know that NP's do not usually do CABG procedures, depending on hospitals, etc.  But for the sake of this chapter... make an exception. lol)**

* * *

**August 2014**

* * *

Samantha was awake long before John was later that afternoon. The television was on, but she found herself not really caring about whatever they were talking about on the news. She halfway listened, her eyes flicking back and forth between her computer screen and John. He was sleeping, or pretending to, his face neutral, arms at his sides. Most of her charting had been abandoned for the last 12 hours, all of her attention focused on the man beside her. Pausing, she rolled her left shoulder, a knot had started to build, wanting a piece of her already thin patience for itself. With a loud huff she ripped the Velcro strap from her prosthetic and threw it onto the free space of the couch that wasn't already covered in paperwork and random pieces of trash leftover from her snack. Samantha's right hand kneaded into her shoulder, eyes falling closing at the relief.

"Are you okay?" John asked, eyes still closed.

" _Oh_ _yeah_ , I'm only _missing_ my arm," she answered sarcastically.

"How long ago?"

"A couple years." His eyebrow raised and she refused to look at him, releasing her shoulder to click on a notification about new lab results that were ready for her.

"Still mad at me?" his voice still had it's gravelly quality. The sound of it alone made the heat rise in her throat.

"What do you think?" she taunted back, finally bringing herself to look at him, scowl on her face.

"Yep." He nodded, attention turning to the news cast on the television. With a roll of her eyes, she snatched up her prosthetic and put it back into it's proper place, wincing as she tightened the strap. She worked her lip between her teeth, effectively keeping any questions for him. There would be another time and place to find out what had happened to John. Guilt rose for the briefest of seconds reminding her that Thatcher was dead. Samantha was sure that if Thatcher was still alive that he would have punched John upon first seeing him. The punch would have been well deserved. John hadn't contacted his friend in over 8 years, leaving much to their imaginations. She could still remember the defeat in his voice as he told Samantha about John buying a house in Jersey, settling down with another woman. That alone was enough to reopen the wounds left behind by him. Thatcher stayed awake with her that night while they drank away what lingering pains were left behind. It was the first night the two of them spent together and the beginnings of their soon to be relationship. John had moved on - it was Samantha's turn too. The pager on her hip vibrated, snapping her out of her internal recall. She yanked it off, praying for a surgery, anything to get her out of his room. It was a page from Rachel: OR 6. A smile spread across her lips.

"I'll be back later," Samantha spoke, looking him over one last time as she stretched. "Got a surgery." He turned to face her and she caught herself staring at him a little harder. "Move from this bed and Viggo's family will literally be the last thing you have to worry about. I am not even joking," she warned, halfway wondering if she should raise her finger too for emphasis. "Your bed alarm is on and you've got your restraints on too. Neither comes off until I trust you."

"You've gotten pretty bossy."

"And you've gotten pretty annoying," she tacked on before leaving his room. The hallway was a welcomed change. Busy and noisy with no John Wick in sight. Having to navigate through the rush of people kept her mind occupied. Downstairs, in the OR, she scrubbed in, briefly wondering what was so important for Rachel to call her in. Rachel rarely required her help during surgery unless she needed a second set of hands suturing and her assistant was off or busy. There wasn't a lot Samantha could do in relation to surgery without having her left arm. Her prosthetic was one of the higher end ones, a rather obnoxious gift from Michael after her first year of working with him. It had borderline life-like functions with the exception of it's Winter Soldier appearance and the metal always being cold unless it was covered up. Her fingers would twitch every now and then, as well, without warning. She had gotten over most of the phantom pain within the last year, able to find different variations of treatments to stop the constant throbbing.

"Christ it's about time," Rachel cursed upon seeing the familiar blue, almond shaped eyes of Samantha over a surgical mask. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

"Do I?" Samantha asked, hands still elevated in front of her to maintain her sterility.

"What's up with you and John Doe? The nurses have been talking." A few of the staff members greeted Samantha, stepping aside for her to take place on the other side of Rachel's patient. Floor nurses loved to gossip about anything and everyone in the hospital. It didn't matter who it was or what it was related to, all information was fair game to them. Once it was picked up in the mill about what was going on, it was hard to stop it. Apparently, Samantha and her newly found interest in a random patient was at the top of the list of things to talk about.

"What are you doing?" Samantha asked, peering into the open chest cavity before her.

"Looking for my car keys," Rachel replied, holding out her hand for another instrument. "Hemostat," she ordered. The short, claw-like scissors were placed in her hand. "Our buddy here just had his third CABG. I'm saving him so he can turn around and do the same old shit and end up right back here, chest wide open, coronary arteries hard as fucking rocks."

"Surely you didn't call me down here just to watch you close up, Rach."

"I didn't. I called you down here to ask you what the hell you're doing."

"What?" Rachel paused mid-suture and looked up at her friend.

"I saw him, Sammy." Samantha swallowed. It was only a matter of time before someone else found out who the John Doe was. "I peeked in on him - and you earlier this morning. I was gonna take you out for breakfast, try to help get your mind off Thatcher. The nurses told me where to find you, because I had been looking all over." Rachel paused to give her a second to reply. Samantha couldn't find the words to use. "You see this guy here on the table?" She nodded. "Do you want this to be you again? You ready for your third CABG, Sammy? I've done it twice. I've helped pick you up off the ground, I cut you open and sewed you back together. Not once, but twice. I don't know if I can do it again." Samantha stood silently, listening to the mechanical sounds of the ventilator and the rhythmic beeping of the bypass machine. "Please, _please_ , Sammy - " her voice pleading.

"You don't have to worry," Samantha cut her off. "Once he's out of the hospital, it'll be just as it was. Just like it was before."

"You know you say that and I - "

"I mean it," she snapped, trying to keep herself under control, remembering that there were plenty of other ears and bodies in the room.

"It probably wouldn't hurt to get him transferred to another service."

"Not yet." Control freak in full force. There was no way she was going to let another team take over this care no matter how much of an asshole he was. With a low sigh, Rachel handed the hemostats back over to her technician and rolled her shoulders.

"Do what you want then, I guess. But, later on, when he leaves again... remember that I tried to stop you. I tried to show you." She paused and held her hand out again. "Bulb syringe." Rachel waited a second time for a reply. "Better go check on your patient," she reminded, her voice flat and even.

Back in John's room, he was laying in the same position she left him in. She was sure with his training that he could have gotten out of the restraints numerous times, but he hadn't, he had stayed, heeding the warning she gave him. With a slow exhale, Samantha took to her couch again, settling down to finish charting. John's eyes opened and he watched her, studying the way she frowned or chewed on her lower lip, blue eyes intently focused on the computer screen. He relaxed against the bed, annoyed that he couldn't make himself sleep. "Interesting surgery?" John asked.

"Mhm," she replied, not looking at him.

"You usually stay with your patients like this?"

"Only the ones that really drive me nuts." He smirked.

"Sammy, really, how long are your shifts? Shouldn't you be getting home?"

"Getting home to what exactly, John?" Samantha rallied back, eyes meeting his. "What's there for me at home?"

"You and Thatcher didn't have any - "

"Kids? No."

"He always wanted kids, I just assumed - " Samantha rolled her lips between her teeth and slammed the lid to her laptop closed, stopping his sentence before he could.

"You don't have the right," she explained. "Let me just tell you that now." She examined his face, the small cuts that peppered his pale skin, his beard, the length of his face and the new length of his hair. He looked so much older compared to when she saw him the last time. "You left us. You left Thatcher and I. No letters, no phone calls, nothing. We had to find out through Aurelio that you had came back and that you're with some woman and you've got a house and - " she trailed off, fighting back the urge to yell. John dropped his head to look at his feet, guilt washing over him. "That was supposed to be me," she whispered. "I was supposed to be that for you, but you left me. You just - " a horde of tears threatened to fall and she refused to let them. "I haven't forgiven you and I don't know that I can." John pursed his lips and nodded twice. "If I'm going to be here, helping keep you safe until you go home, you don't get to talk about him."

"Sammy - "

"I meant what I said. That's enough," she ordered, opening her laptop back up. He was quiet, watching the news, the reporter was broadcasting from the stockyards, reporting on the mess that he had left behind. Crashed cars, dead bodies, and a lot of damage. Samantha ignored it and continued on her work.

"I'm surprised you stayed here. Have you went home to see your mom recently?" She bit down on the inside of her lip and shook her head for a moment.

"Nope," she replied, the response a little more agitated than he expected.

"I thought you would eventually move back home. Your mom's getting older too, isn't she?" Samantha paused in her typing, squinting her eyes up as she stared at John from over her laptop lid. Surely he knew that her mother was off limits as well? She should have mentioned that he was not allowed to talk about anyone she cared for, that Thatcher was just one of a few.

"I'm going to go finish charting in the cafeteria," Samantha stated, packing up her work. Rather than start another argument, John let her go, watching her leave the room without another word. He shifted his weight in the bed, trying to find a way to get comfortable without being able to move his arms. He debated taking off the restraints, but feared he wouldn't be able to put them back on before she came back. The television continued to ramble on and he found himself at a loss. He wasn't used to being an invalid.

* * *

**April 1999**

* * *

The first night John invited Samantha to his apartment he was nervous. He wasn't one to have a girlfriend and his family was either dead or didn't care where he was. One of his neighbors suggested that he get his penthouse cleaned before his guest arrived and that was exactly what he had done that morning. He had been asking for advice in the days before their scheduled meeting, unsure of how things like that usually went. He stressed most of the afternoon before she arrived, constantly alternating between lighting candles and watching the clock. There were only a handful of people who had been to the actual place that he lived in, this fact, compounded with the crush he had on Samantha, made him more anxious than usual. John didn't usually get nervous. It was hard to find something that would actually set him on the edge without shooting bullets at him or throwing a weapon into his hands. He fidgeted and walked through the rooms again, searching for anything that could possibly be out of place. He paced in his bedroom as time drew closer for her to arrive. 7:24pm.

He watched the clock flip to 7:25pm. The doorbell rang. He froze for a moment, looked himself over in the mirror one more time. A black button-up dress shirt, black pants, and black shoes. He had rolled the sleeves up on his shirt a few hours ago. At the door, Samantha was wearing a pair of worn jeans and a large, over-sized light pink sweatshirt with dirty white Converse. Embarrassment bloomed across her cheeks at the sight of the inside of his penthouse. "I think I'm under dressed," she muttered, pulling on the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

"You look great," he insisted, opening the door to allow her inside.

"Mhm, says the guy in the suit. Standing in the middle of his _freakin' penthouse_. Seriously, John, you didn't tell me! I would have dressed nicer!"

"No, no!" She adjusted the collar of her sweatshirt and smoothed her hair down, gawking in awe at the place that he called home.

"I can't believe you actually live here!" she breathed. "You live here alone?" He nodded, closing the door, unsure of whether or not he should lock it.

"I didn't want you to treat me differently. You're one of the few who doesn't treat me like celebrity." She smiled and sat her purse down on a long table near the door.

"You? A celebrity?" she teased. "Most celebrities go out and actually want to be flashy. That's not you, John." He gave her that famous half smile of his and held his arm out for her, ready to show her the place he called home. Over the past couple of weeks she had grown accustomed to walking straight next to him, their arms interlaced, he would duck down and tell her a short joke every now and then, leaving a wide smile on her face. They took to the living room, kitchen, and dining area. There was a large window, from floor to ceiling in each room, the flow between the rooms was spacious and bright. He paused in the hallway near the entry way as they made their way back around to the door. He had only taken a handful of women to his bedroom with no issues in the past. Samantha was different. He studied her, watching her eyes dart around the area, trying to take in as much as she could, studying small random trinkets on a shelf that held his keys.

"The rooms and bathroom are down this way," he told her, watching to gauge her reaction. She smiled and turned to follow his extended arm. Each bedroom followed the same decoration as the front of the penthouse, large floor to ceiling windows, lots of space to move around, and a lot of lighting. Many gray, blue and black hues with the occasional white accent. They walked closer to his bedroom and he could feel an characteristic blush creep up his cheeks. She took a short, modest step inside each room, not daring to invade his space. He didn't need to say much, she could tell by how tense he had become that the last room she was stepping into was his. Samantha was quick, she did a survey of the walls and noted the dog tags hanging near his four post bed. With a nod and a smile, she was out in the hallway again.

"This makes me miss home," she admitted as they walked together to the kitchen.

"Home?"

"I'm from a small town out in the Midwest. My mom has a small little ranch house in the country. I miss the space sometimes. Going from wide open country space to a tiny dorm room in one of the largest cities in the world? Yeah, I'm still adjusting," she added with a laugh.

"You get to go home often?"

"Not as often as I should. My mom can't really afford it. I've only been home twice in the last four years." He bowed his head. He felt like he knew her and didn't know her all at the same time.

"I'm sorry." It was all he felt like he could do. She waved him off, explaining that it was okay, it was just apart of the struggle. John nodded, unsure of how to express that he was once in the same position she had been in before. There was no good way to respond to hearing about someone's money troubles.

"I would really like to talk about something else," she told him with a scrunch of her nose. "I don't really like talking about that."

"You want to talk about dinner?"

"You actually made dinner?" she teased.

"Well, kind of - " he shrugged. "I did earn the money to buy the food from a restaurant."

"I'm not sure if that counts." John's lip pulled up at the corner as he turned to remove the food from the oven. He plated it carefully, watching over his shoulder every few moments as Samantha sat at the dining room table, looking out the window. It was nice not having to spend a Sunday night cooped up in a dorm room. When John offered to make her dinner, at first she thought it was some kind of joke. Sure, they had taken to seeing each other almost everyday since their initial meeting at The Columns, but something about spending time with him outside of that new unspoken arrangement felt like something more. Most of her instinct was telling her to shut up, the other half just couldn't keep it's mouth shut though. It was an endless stream of unworthiness. Coming to his apartment made the voice sound even louder. She tugged at the sleeves of her sweatshirt and swallowed, hoping the voice would shut up for at least most of dinner.

"I hope you like chicken," he spoke, snatching her right out of her thoughts. "The guy said it was the best on the menu." She brought a fork full of chicken smothered in a green, seedy sauce up to her nose. The smell was enough to make her gag on command. She tried to politely smile, but it was overwhelming. John did the same, instantly setting the fork down. "Right, well, I can see that's not the truth," he coughed, pushing the plate away.

"Thank god," she muttered, doing the same.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, gathering the plates up.

"Don't be!" she chirped, following him to the kitchen. He held both plates above the trash can and stopped.

"He said it was the best," John spoke, staring at the plates of food in his hands.

"Maybe he didn't taste this before it was sent off."

"You think we should have him try it?" John turned to look at her, a sinister smirk on his face.

"What? You mean you want to walk all the way down there just to make him try this chicken?"

"He said it was the best." Samantha stared the green concoction and smiled after a moment.

"Sure."

The pair walked arm and arm to the bistro a few blocks away. Samantha wasn't sure how she felt walking next to him in the clothes he was wearing, but it didn't seem to make a difference to him. He kept his eyes low, on the sidewalk, feeling the embarrassment of the situation cloud his mind. John had been planning for everything to be perfect, he wanted the evening to flow smoothly and fall under his expectations. This was not how he had planned things out to go. He thought they would eat, sit out on the balcony and watch the city, drink some wine, and he would walk her home. Having the man who sold him the gross chicken try the actual chicken did not fit in anywhere. They walked together, his stride just as long and graceful as his usual, trying to hide the short burst of feelings inside. When they arrived, the bistro was closed. John shook his head and sat the bag of food down on the stoop, cursing. The bistro had closed five minutes before.

"What about the alley?" Samantha asked, pointing down the alley to a side door. He walked over to join her, his curiosity getting the worst of him, he pushed open the large silver door positioned a few feet inside the alley way. Inside, was a kitchen to what he assumed was the restaurant, given the similar foul smell of the chicken filled the air. Holding his nose, he marched inside, dragging Samantha and his bag of rotten food behind him. The chef was seated in a recliner between the dining area and the kitchen, a cigar in his mouth. His apron was covered in sweat and grease, hands dirty and unwashed. John made a face and slammed the bag of food right into his lap. The chef jumped and cussed.

"Fuck!" the man shouted, raising up from his perch.

"You make this shit?" John asked in a growl, pointing to the bag that was now on the floor.

"Of course! I make all the food! The best chicken in the city!" he shouted.

"Uh-huh," John replied, face serious and hard. "You're gonna eat it and tell me what you think."

"It's the best!" he insisted, pounding his chest.

"It's the worst," Samantha tacked on, stepping up to John's side.

"I have countless awards for my chicken!"

"Have you actually tried it?" John asked, swiping the bag from the floor, he reopened the container and shoved it under the man's nose. The chef gagged and covered his face. "Didn't think so."

"I - I don't understand..."

"Don't plan on understanding. We just thought you should know," John quipped, reaching for Samantha's hand. The couple was out of the bistro before the chef had ample time to react, still standing in the same hopeless position John put him in. "How does pizza sound?" John asked her as they re-entered the sidewalk.

"Pizza's great." The smile she gave him in response derailed him. He paused and allowed her to take a few steps with him, unsure of what to do. All he could think about was the small blonde in front of him. It was infuriating. He wanted it to end. He was willing to do whatever he needed to get her out of his head. Her smile became the entirety of his thoughts. It was driving him mad. She turned to look at him and he deliberately turned away. There was no way his body would allow him what he wanted. It wasn't right. His lifestyle left no room for anyone else, no matter how tempting. His feet found their way again and they continued on their stroll, stomachs empty and minds full.


End file.
